


hold it up to my cold heart

by paperclipbitch



Series: femslash100 drabbles [18]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Community: fc_smorgasbord, Community: femslash100, F/F, Post-Mockingjay, Survivor Guilt, drabbletag6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:12:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4243869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now, she films the bad and the good alongside each other, and creates propaganda for no one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold it up to my cold heart

**Author's Note:**

> [Title from _Don't Save Me_ by HAIM] Written for drabbletag6 at femslash100 for the prompt _hard_ , and for my table at fc_smorgasbord for 21. _hurt_. Much sadder than I meant to to be, argh.

Their new world is built on the bodies of those who fell before it, who cracked their backs to build foundations. Only they didn’t know what they were doing, because Cressida has an eye for detail, and nobody who died in the rebellions and the streets thought that they were sacrificing themselves for a greater good. They were desperate, and that desperation bit through them and carried them down.

Now, she films the bad and the good alongside each other, and creates propaganda for no one, and history can judge the story without the jump-cuts that have built so many of her films, showing her public only what she wanted them to see; now, she’ll let them see everything, it doesn’t matter anymore.

Johanna Mason cuts her own hair and doesn’t sleep much at night and wears a constant, crooked, _I told you that this would happen_ smile. Cressida doesn’t film her for other people to watch, but sometimes leaves the camera running when they crawl over each other’s bones into bed, skin and teeth and remnants. Johanna doesn’t watch it back, but Cressida often does, looking for something other than bitterness and futility in the slide of limbs and bites.

Sometimes, Cressida’s nights are tangled, sharp, full of: _I should’ve died with my team_. 

Those are the nights when Johanna kisses her, brutal and fierce, whispers cruelly into the hollows of her collarbones: “people like you and me, we survive to tell the stories that nobody wants to hear.”


End file.
